CHAPTER 52 #2
Mrs. Bennet returned downstairs still lamenting tomorrow’s journey and the unnatural cruelty of leaving two daughters behind while taking only one away.
Kitty followed with a backward glance at Mary’s packet of music.
Lydia was sent to help the children put away the paper boats before they became naval ruin upon the carpet.
Jane and Mr. Bingley took Mary back to Brook Street, with Miss Bingley issuing Mary an instruction about gloves that Mary received as if it were a matter of musical discipline.
When Elizabeth took leave of her father, he looked at her for a moment longer than usual.
“You look well, Lizzy,” he said.
He said it without mockery, which made it harder to answer lightly.
“I am well, Papa.”
“I am glad of it.”
“Thank you.”
“And Mr. Darcy?”
“Is well also.”
“Then I shall try not to disturb the arrangement.”
“That would be generous of you.”
“My dear, I have always been capable of generosity when it costs me very little.”
Mrs. Bennet kissed Elizabeth with sufficient feeling to be observed, and then immediately lowered her voice.
“You must write, Lizzy. You must tell me everything that is proper to tell, for I am sure people will ask. Not that I shall boast, but one must answer civil questions.”
“I shall write when there is something proper to write, Mama.”
Mrs. Bennet looked briefly dissatisfied with so narrow a promise, but continued.
“And when we are next in town, perhaps you may have us to Portman Square. Not a party, only family. A mother may visit her married daughter, I suppose, without being thought ambitious.”
Elizabeth knew precisely how much ambition her mother could fit into family affection.
“We are not ready to host anyone just yet.”
“Not anyone,” cried Mrs. Bennet. “Family.”
“Not yet,” said Elizabeth.
Mrs. Bennet’s mouth tightened, then smoothed itself. “Well, yes. Newly married people must have their arrangements, I am sure. But you will remember, Lizzy, that a family cannot be kept out forever.”
“No,” said Elizabeth. “Only until it may be received comfortably.”
Mr. Darcy, beside her, bowed. “Mrs. Darcy’s comfort must guide our arrangements.”
Mrs. Bennet looked disappointed by the absence of a date and impressed by the manner of its refusal.
“Well, yes, of course. Lizzy always did know her own mind.”
Kitty came last, lingering near Elizabeth with unusual uncertainty.
“Will you write to me?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“Even if I have nothing clever to say?”
“Especially then. Clever letters are often very tiring.”
Kitty smiled despite herself. “I might send you a drawing.”
“Then I shall be very pleased to have it.”
“Even if it is not very good?”
“Kitty, I do not love my sisters by the quality of their drawing.”
Kitty looked down, coloured, and then embraced her quickly.
They returned to Portman Square in the later evening.
The house received them with its usual correctness. Mrs. Doddridge was in the hall, Pomington at her side in the corrected blue wrapper. Mrs. Albright appeared with the information that Mr. Hartwood’s note had arrived and been placed in the library.
Elizabeth heard the change in Mr. Darcy’s breathing before she looked at him.
“Hartwood?” he said.
“Yes, sir,” said Mrs. Albright. “Marked for Mrs. Darcy’s immediate attention.”
Elizabeth drew off her gloves. “Then we had better attend to it.”
The library had been warmed, though the evening did not strictly require it. Hartwood’s note lay on the desk, sealed, neat, and far too innocent.
Elizabeth broke it.
The hand was familiar; the economy of expression was worse than alarm. Mr. Hartwood never used emphasis where fact would do.
She read the note once.
Then again.
Mr. Darcy had not moved.
“What is it?” he asked.
Elizabeth handed it to him.
He read.
Madam,
Mr. George Wickham has returned to town from Derbyshire. Several debts lately pressing upon him have, within the last two days, been discharged or otherwise quieted by Mr. Wickham himself. This sudden command of ready money is notable, as his creditors had not lately found him so supplied.
He is no longer lodged at Darcy House.
Miss Darcy is in town and, I am informed, staying at Darcy House with her companion. I cannot yet say whether these facts are connected. I can only say that I dislike the order in which they have appeared.
I continue inquiries and will send further intelligence as soon as it may be safely obtained.
Your obedient servant,
H. Hartwood
Mr. Darcy lowered the page.
Elizabeth had seen him grave, displeased, tired, and wounded. This was different. His stillness was not restraint enough to hide alarm; it was alarm turned instantly into restraint.
“Georgiana,” he said.
Elizabeth came to stand beside him and looked again at Hartwood’s note. “At Darcy House. With a companion whose judgment we do not know. While Mr. Wickham has returned from Derbyshire with money enough to quiet debts and no longer remains under the same roof.”
His hand closed on the paper.
“He is not farther away from her,” she said.
Mr. Darcy’s eyes lifted to hers.
“No,” he said. “He is better placed.”
That was worse, because it was true.
He looked back at the note, his expression hardening by degrees, not with anger alone but with calculation.
“My father would never have given him money for this.”
Elizabeth waited.
“He may still favour Wickham,” Mr. Darcy said.
“He may still believe him injured, loyal, misunderstood — anything that preserves his old judgment. But debts are different. Secret debts. Gaming debts. Tradesmen made impatient. Creditors speaking where servants may hear. My father would call it want of self-command before he called it misfortune.”
“Then Mr. Wickham would hide such debts from him.”
“At any cost.”
“And yet they have been quieted.”
“Yes.”
He set the note down, but did not release it.